


Runnin'

by a_fandom_affliction



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Curiosity, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Mush, Gyms, Love Notes, M/M, Pining, Post-it Notes, Running, Staring, Treadmills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 01:24:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8081272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_fandom_affliction/pseuds/a_fandom_affliction
Summary: It’s their daily jog together. At least, Dean likes to think of it as their jog. It’s not like they actually run together, but… they do. In close proximity. Sort of.





	

 

It’s their daily jog together. At least, Dean likes to _think_ of it as their jog. It’s not like they actually run together, but… they do. In close proximity. Sort of.

 

 _Ugh_.

 

It’s hard for Dean to remember the days when they didn’t run together. His treadmill jogs right behind Blue’s, and always keeps up. It would’ve been so _easy_ to say “hi” the first time it’d happened. But, with each passing day, it had gotten harder and harder to breach the gap, and, now, after so long, it was impossible. They’d always had occasional looks back and forth, but, as Dean knew, they were probably coincidences. Of course, _Dean_ always looks at Blue - he doesn’t have anything else _to_ look at, other than the rise and fall of Blue’s head, the way his skin slowly slicks with sweat, the way his ass-

 

Dean doesn’t turn red from exercising, but he does turn red when he’s embarrassed or aroused. His cover story is brilliant, though, as long as his man-bits don’t give him away. He can pass off any redness as an aftereffect of his workout - he is at the gym, after all, and struggling to keep up with himself. He’s racing with his neurotic nerves, his fervent fears, his taxing trepidations.

 

Wow, now he’s really out of breath. And confused.

 

But, hah, even Blue has flaws. It’s not like Dean think he’s perfect, or anything. How could Blue be perfect with shoes that smell like _shit_? Even though, Blue comes close to perfection.

 

...and his shoes come close to Dean as Blue lifts them up on the treadmill, upwind of Dean.

 

Just as Dean’s iPod (curse the day that he admits he likes the damn thing) advances to the next song, a wave of toxic air permeates his nostrils. “ _T_ _ell me how I’m supposed to breath with no air. Can’t live, can’t breathe, with no air… if you ain’t here I just can’t breathe. There’s no air, no air, no air_ …” sings Jordin Sparks.

 

 _Whew_ , Dean thinks. _How can I breathe in this air? Deep breath in, deep breath out…_

 

Ahh.

 

How toxic air can be refreshing, Dean doesn’t know. But amid the toxins, there is some sweetness. Dean just senses it; he has that tingly feeling in his nostrils.

 

It’s hard for Dean to hold back a little smile. He can’t get away from the sheer attractiveness of Blue, this time. The occasional silent connection they have is worth the foul air he endures. Dean snorts; he must be high on either the stench or endorphins.

 

Dean glances at the clock, and lets out a puff of air. He’s been exercising longer than usual. He’s pumped. He’s not getting tired. (Exercise is a healthy form of procrastination.)

 

The treadmill pounds into his feet, shaking his whole body. He is running faster, now, reaching his limit. Just as he alternately steps - _leftrightleftrightleft_ \- his strength to contact Blue is contrasted by his fear of rejection and humiliation. Their closeness is a metaphorical treadmill - no matter how hard Dean tries, no matter how fast Dean runs, he can’t get any closer. The counteracting forces of acceptance and rejection pull at him equally. Dean is in equilibrium. He is moving at a constant velocity on the treadmill, but he can’t get himself to move towards Blue. He gets off the treadmill - it isn’t like he was getting anywhere on it, anyway.

 

Dean tries to look okay in his gym clothes, but it’s hard. (Okay, don’t judge him. He’s a businessman; he needs to always make a good impression.) The mirrors tell him that he looks chubby. That’s the only thing the mirror ever tells him, besides girly, freckles, Ken Doll.

 

Dean’s orange good-luck socks haven’t brought him any luck. He’s going to go buy some different colored ones, because he’s getting kind of sick of orange. People must think he wears the same sweaty socks every day, but he actually has dozens of them from that sale at Costco. Dean knows that’s what Blue’s thinking when he turns around: chubby, freak, loser, sweaty-sock-wearer.

 

Droplets of sweat drip down Dean’s face, ravaging his pores and burning the roots of his confidence. But Blue gives Dean a feeling all over his body just from _looking at his back_. So he knows all this dumb suffering is worth it.

 

The odor burns his nostrils, but Dean can’t resist. He walks down the hallway outside the men’s locker room, one hand holding an orange Post-It with his name and number on it. He sees them, resting on a wooden bench, right where he left them after “their” jog, laces untied. Why are they there? Dean doesn’t care. His eye is twitching, but he bites the tip of his tongue and sticks the note face up in the heel of Blue’s right shoe.

 

Okay.

 

Dean leaves the gym, but can’t stop thinking about Blue. It’s getting ridiculous, honestly. Dean hopes that Blue feels the same, but… he won’t. Dean hopes he will call, but… he won’t. It’s been seven minutes since he put the note in Blue’s shoe (and his heart on the waiting list for rejection).

 

Dean enters his apartment and begins pacing. It’s been an hour and three minutes. _I shouldn’t have done it. Blue doesn’t like me. It’s going to be awkward. No way, I’m not giving in. I won’t change my workout routine. But it will be hard to look at him, tomorrow…_

   

* * *

 

There he is. Castiel could set his watch by Socks, if he had one. Same gym. Same time. Same workout. Socks never misses a day. Castiel doesn't think he himself will, either. His mother and father are both… he doesn’t want to say overweight, but, yes, they are. Castiel doesn’t want that to happen to himself. But, he has another reason, too.

 

Crack. Crack. Castiel’s neck always cracks when he turns his head swiftly to check the clock on the wall. At first, it was a real pain, but then he saw Socks. When he realized that he got to look at the other man every time hinterested e turned to check the clock, Castiel’s neck strain stopped bothering him. But he has to be discreet. He loves looking at Socks, but he doesn’t want him to know that the other man makes Castiel stare. At least, not quite yet. Castiel isn’t lacking in self-confidence, he’s just… shy. He wants to talk to Socks. He wants to go up to him. But what if he thinks Castiel’s just hitting on him? He’s really in knowing Socks; but how is Socks supposed to tell the difference?

 

What a cutie. He’s just Castiel’s type: tall, broad, and tan. The cutest freckles. Green eyes. Bowed legs that end in fluorescent orange socks. Socks always wears the same pair, day in, and day out. He must love orange.

 

Castiel sneaks a glance over his shoulder.

 

What he likes most about Socks is that he doesn’t act like he’s beautiful. He doesn’t know how nervous he makes Castiel. He doesn’t know the grace he exudes. He has a story to tell, and Castiel wants to hear it. But he’s afraid to ask.

 

Wimpy? Maybe.

 

Intimidated? Definitely.

 

Castiel feels like he’s watched the same Candid Camera episode 5,555,555,550 times. His failed attempts keep replaying in his head. With every day that he says nothing, Socks is more and more likely to think that Castiel is either straight, or in great need of a watch.

 

He wants to know Socks’s name. Seeing him every day for weeks, Castiel refers to him as Socks, or Orange Socks, or Freckles. How pathetic. He has to know his name. At least, for now, it’d be easier to ask the receptionist Socks’s name than to ask him directly. At least if the receptionist refuses, it won’t be as humiliating as a “no” from Socks.

 

Castiel makes his way to the front desk. He says “excuse me” to the nerdy girl behind the counter. He’s caught her staring in the past, but the one time he actually wants her attention, she’s preoccupied. Castiel’s the only person there, the phone is resting on its hook, but she’s still talking to someone, nonetheless. Castiel sighs. He’s getting impatient. He feels like he’s hailing a taxi. He waves and waves, but they just drive by. It’s the same with her. Castiel’s waving and waving, and the girl seems to be talking to her stapler.

 

 Finally, he gets her attention. Castiel asks. She answers. He writes “Dean” on the envelope containing his note to the man he used to know as Socks. He asks the receptionist to “please give this to Dean.”

 

Dean. _Dean_.

 

As Castiel sits on the bench outside the men’s locker room, he fights the urge to chicken out and retrieve the envelope. He bolts into the locker room to take a shower (and to keep himself from being a wimp.) The hot water is soothing.

 

_Shit. I left my shoes on the bench. But… no worries. Who would want to steal those smelly old things?_

 

Castiel gets out of the shower, dresses, jumps into his shoes, and leaves. He doesn’t want to miss Dean’s call.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I love comments and criticism.  
> :) Thanks for reading.


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